Month: August 2011

I just finished baking a batch of brownies when I realized, I don’t have anyone particularly worthy to receive them at the moment. So i let the brownies just lie there, cooling itself. The top crystalizing beautifully as the crushed pecans and walnuts gathered moisture from the eggs.

I never really eat the stuff I cook. I somehow always become full during the process. The only times I cook is upon impulse. Whenever a colleague pisses me off, I end up trying a new recipe.

What’s worse is whenever my incompetent boss yells at me, I go home and I start doing excessive cleaning, which I seldom complete until past midnight. And causes me to be late and decide not to go to work the following day. Only giving more fuel for my boss’ to despise me.

I’m sure Aunt Maggie and Gramps were waiting for a slice of my brownies, but they weren’t going to have any. No sir. Especially, not after they shared their degrading opinions of my decision to cover up. I’m not gonna call them bigots just yet, I’ll stay calm and wait till they’ve gathered enough decency to know what they did was wrong and try to respect other people’s choices.

I decided to cover up. Like Moslem women do. Only revealing my face and my hands to the world. I work for a call centre company, which doesn’t really require looks. Heck, I can come to work without showering and answer calls from 9 to 5 without anyone complaining. Well, except that incompetent boss I mentioned earlier. Who’s sole purpose in life is to find other people’s mishaps. So, it seems.

I was inspired by a picture of a Moslem women in The Sartorialist. She looked so sharp wearing her black abaya and the contrasting orange scarf she used to cover her hair. A pair of pearl earrings dangled beautifully as if they were trying to compete with her exuberant smile. Then on, I began blog walking, and found out that the real hijab was not a form of male coercion towards female Muslims. The women choose to cover up to achieve God’s approval. So how are they different from nuns who do the same thing? Nuns cover up and they are respected as holy beings. Muslim women cover up and we assume they’re being coerced to? Talk about dual standards, America.

Of course, I’m an American. Born and raised in Portland, Oregon. My late father was a well-known carpenter and my late mother designed and sold silkscreen fabrics. My two immediate links to the world, who died climbing the Himalayas when I was twelve. Exactly then, I denied God’s existence. I knew that was the highest form of hatred one can have for a god. I hated him for not letting my parents live.

The night I saw that photo on The Sartorialist, I went to Target and bought several pashminas. They were cheap, only 12 bucks for a pack of three. Silk Pashmina made in Turkey, said the label. I could care less, if it was real silk or not. The color coordination of the 3pack was very convenient though. Silver, dusty pink and black.

I remember walking home so excited that night. And immediately logged into YouTube for hijab tutorials when I was finally in my room.

I forgot about the inners. The fabric underneath the hijab so it wouldn’t slip off your hair. Thank goodness someone posted a video on cutting up old t-shirts for inners. In an instant, I had 3 or five inners PLUS a bundle of rags for cleaning whenever my boss pisses me of again.

I repeat, I’m not a Muslim. I just wanted to know what it is like being covered. Not having to worry about people checking out my boobs. I have D cups, and boys find it hard looking for my eyes due to such distraction. But wearing a hijab distracts them even more, I found out. Especially the needle-brained boys. Some even called me a “sand-ni***r” me? Someone as white as an albino? A “ni***r” I would’ve slapped his mouth if I didn’t remember I was representing a religion that wasn’t even mine with that outfit. So I simply walked up to him and gave me a piece of my mind without raising my voice. Telling him I wasn’t even a Muslim, that I was as American as his mother and that covering up for me was just a matter of style preference.

I soon realized that I no longer have to worry about my jiggly thighs or muffin tops over my jeans. I now buy my tunics and abayas from a nearby Pakistani home business. They mainly sell saris and Hindi ceremonial stuff but their Muslim relatives drop off their products too. I told them I’m not a Muslim, but after wearing hijab for almost one month, I feel ‘naked’ when I go out not covering myself. Ms. Singh simply smiled, a knowing smile and said nothing. I blushed. As pink as the pashmina I was wearing that day.

Aunt Maggie and Gramps, did disapprove at first before finally giving in. She said, “Beats having you cut up yourself like you used to. At least this destructive behavior of yours doesn’t involve bloodshed.” “So, any Moslem suitors under 70 come to propose for you yet?” Gramps chuckled after making his remark. “Not yet, but I’m quite sure Ms. Singh’s brother-in-law is looking for a third wife.” Gramps pretended to hold his 81 year old chest as if he was having a heart attack. We laughed and they were allowed to have some of my famous chocolate chip cookies.

********

It was my 40th day of covering. I wanted to treat myself to some ice cream for having come this far. I stopped by a used book store and found a copy of A. Yusuf Ali’s Holy Qur’an. The shopkeeper kept throwing suspicious glances over his gold-rimmed eyeglasses and kept inching towards me pretending to arrange books. I decided to purchase the copy and left him with his prejudice.

The ice cream shop was just about to open, but already a long line of customers were waiting. Just before me were two Muslim women. Casual light cottony clothing yet covered and still elegant. They were Middle-Eastern and they probably thought I was Bosnian or something due to my Caucasian features. They politely said their Salam when I stood behind them, I simply nodded back, not knowing how to reply correctly yet. Was it “wassalama” or “walaikumsalam”, rather than making a fool of myself, a smile was a way better option.

The shop was opening. I could hear the buzz. A summer buzz, filled with children’s squeals, beach balls and bicycle bells. I was feeling a lot more cheerful lately. Perhaps it was because of the abaya. Perhaps it was the feeling of having more control of my body and how I ‘protected’ and ‘respected’ myself. I remembered the book I bought. In it must be an explanation about the veil. So I took it out and began to read from the front. “In The Name of God, Most Gracious, Most Merciful.” my heart sank to this. I was confused but happy.

All of a sudden, I felt a sharp sting in my temple, then everything went black.

Minutes later, I could see again. I saw my body drenched in blood. Next to me, the two Muslim women’s bodies were covered in blood too. We were all shot precisely in the head by a sniper down the street from a window on the fifth floor. He was aiming for just the two, who he knew always had ice creams on bright sunny days like this. I just happened to be there and dressed like them.

“Come.” I heard a voice.
It was the lady in front of me, showing me the way.

People can be saints; but they can be devil too.
But most of them are something in the middle.
Trying to find their true space.
Just like you.

Don’t get caught in their webs.
You might not be welcome, you might get eaten up and they might even spit on you.

You might as well be considered a piece of bubble gum stuck on the soles of their shoe.
Annoying. Clinging closely to somebody who doesn’t want you to.

Let them laugh at you when you’re down and low.
But be discreet when you’ve reached the top.

Never be the one to start confrontation, never be the one to judge.

Don’t limit yourself to water, coz you’re not a sponge.
Absorb the hatred.
Absorb the love.
Absorb the knowledge.
Absorb everything around you.

Nobody’s perfect, someone said to me today. True, but everybody walks around carrying perfect ideas in their heads and place their picture perfect ideas high upon their pedestals. Expecting the best and rejecting even the minuscule flaws.

Bad things, I’ve done. And will do again. I’m not proud. Never was. Never will be.
But still,
I take my time to carress the sunset, and kiss the stars.

“She’s so high!! High above me, she’s so lovely!! Like Cleopatra, Joan of Arc and Aphrodite!!”

Sandra was singing from the top of her lungs. Screaming to be more exact. In the shadowy room I could make out a tear rolling down her cheek.

I sat quietly next to her and let her have her release. She’s too proud to ask for my shoulder and this is what she does whenever she gets her heart destroyed by some foolish bloke.

I’m among the few who is allowed to see her getting drunk and reckless like this. She’s on her way into finishing one whole pint on her own. I make sure she doesn’t bump into things.

“Kiss me…” all of a sudden Sandra was straddling me. “Jaka… please?” her head was aligned with mine and just as her lips were about to land on mine, I turned my face away. Allowing her lipstick smear my cheek..

“Sandra, don’t be like this. Let’s go home, shall we?”

That said, she went limp on my lap.

She finally reached her limit. She wrapped her arms around my neck and began to sob. I automatically hugged her close. It looked and felt as if I was a father carrying his child. I hoped the waiter wouldn’t come and catch us like this. But still I hugged her close, begging God to have the ability to squeeze out all her pains.

Brian was supposed to be on a business trip to Japan, because that’s where he’s posted to manage Palm Oil exports from Indonesia. Instead, Sandra was able to follow him to a massage parlor in the northern part of town. The type that offers ‘extra treatments’.

Not wanting to ruin the Picture Perfect Marriage, Sandra as always, keeps her poise. The doting wife, delightful daughter-in-law. The ever-smiling mother and daughter. I often fear for her sanity. To me she is Aphrodite. Full of love, elegance and forever worthy of affection and praise.

Finally she fell asleep crying on my lap. The sniffles have not subsided yet. Sniffles of intense crying that reminded me of my little sister whom —as a child— I used to tease till she cried.

I sat Sandra down gently in the passenger’s seat. She mumbled a lyric from one of the songs she just sang. I wipe dthe sweat from her forehead and give it a gentle kiss. “I’m gonna drop you off at Nikita’s place, okay? Your daughter musn’t see you like this. Nikita will call up your parents and tell them you worked overtime tonight.”

As I drove into the traffic-free Jakarta, I pictured what it would’ve been like if I was into girls instead of guys. Wouldn’t I and Sandra be one of the happiest couples alive?

Aphrodite did marry Ares a fellow God. Also she married Anchises a mere human being. I cannot recall any Greek mythology of Aphrodite falling in love with a queer being like me. Even so, I love my Aphrodite, with the light of million galaxies. A different kind of love.